Our Kingdom
by January Moth
Summary: Under the rule of the royal family Argent, all werewolves are to be hunted and killed on sight. Any individual who shelters or protects these monsters is considered a traitor to the crown. Stiles had always understood this, but when he finds an injured werewolf hiding in the forest, he can't seem to let him die. Medieval/Fairytale AU. Sterek.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Thank you for reading! I'm not sure how original the idea is, but I've been having fun writing it! This story has been edited to comply with the restrictions of the he website. If you wish to read the story in its entirety, you can find it on AO3 at archiveofourown works / 479619

Enjoy!

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Stiles knelt down low in the brown and brittle leaves, closely examining a broken branch. His fingertips lightly brushed against the leaves, watching the way they had been bent ad broken. Crisp, brown and gold leaves were shaken off, littering the forest floor. The fall was the best time to hunt. The leaves were a perfect way to follow a stumbling and injured quarry. It broke his heart to do it, but the doe he had hit was scrawny and already limping from a previous injury. It wouldn't last long anyway, and Stiles would be certain to put its body to good use after death.

From the way that it was thrashing about, Stiles could tell he was drawing close to where the deer had met its end. He checked the sun. Still plenty of time to find the thing and get back to the village before sunset. Not that he didn't know his way around the woods, but Beacon Hills was a rather small village on the outskirts of the Kingdom. Relative to the rest of the country, it was rather vulnerable. Its roads, unwatched. Marauders and highwaymen were not uncommon outside the protection of the village gates, preying on those who walked alone or unprotected. Even in relative times of peace such as these, it paid to be wary. Stiles hurried off down the gentle slope, following the path of the doe which was becoming more obvious as it drew closer to the end.  
Stiles found the deer in a secluded glen. Looking around, Stiles privately and grimly thought that it really wasn't a bad place to die. Sunlight filtered through broad, leafy trees that grew around the cliff side. Water trickled about a steady brook that fed a small clear and cold lake pressed up against the rocks. Despite being late in the season, little yellow flowers were still in bloom. Stiles bent down over the body, checking to make sure that it didn't need to be put out of its misery.

This was why Stiles leapt about two feet into the air when he heard a low, deep and rumbling growl.  
He reeled about, brandishing his slingshot despite the fact that it was unloaded with any sort of artillery. He groped around the soft grass, eyes wide and alert for a predator. Inwardly, he cursed himself for being so careless. One of the biggest threats of hunting in these woods was another animal that also picked up on your target injured and dying. A wildcat, or perhaps a stray wolf rendered wild and savage after being left alone. He heard it again, and his hair stood on end. Whatever it was, it was close. But... it didn't sound angry or threatening. When Stiles was younger and somehow even _more_ reckless than he was today, he found himself in the company of an angered mother bear. That day, he learned that black bear cubs did _not_ make good playmates, and had learned to recognize the sound of an enraged predator. And this... didn't sound that way. Not quite.

Stiles heard it again, a low and gravelly sort of roar. A strained, drawn-out note at the end. One that was almost... _pained_.  
Stiles' hand closed around a smooth, peach-pit sized rock. He fitted it into the leather seat of the sling, creeping forward. The wall of the cliffside naturally created a curve, large boulders having fallen away due to erosion over the years. Beginning at the top, several feet above as a hairline crack, a crevasse opened on the cliff side to the very bottom now wide and protected cave.

He could hear it breathing now. A harsh, ragged sound. It was a large creature, and there was no doubt now that it was hurt. The howling sounded closest to that of a wolf, but like no wolf Stiles had ever heard before. The smart thing to do probably would have been to back away, leave the doe and hurry back to the village. Perhaps with luck his snares might have caught a rabbit or two and he would not have to go home empty-handed. But curiosity had him now, and he could not be deterred. Slowly, cautiously, Stiles round a large round boulder to the mouth of the cavern. But it was not a fallen wolf or bear that he saw; rather it was a very dirty but very obviously human body. The man was naked from the waist up. He wore a pair of trousers so dirty and torn it was impossible to tell what sort of make they were originally. He was lying on the damp stone floor, his breathing heavy and ragged as if coming from the lungs of a creature three times his actual size. Still, he was a person. And that was enough to cause Stiles to jump into action.

"Oh, god! Are you alright? Hey!" He ran forward, dropping his sling as he went. He skidded across the rough stone, putting his hand on the freezing cold shoulder. At once, there was a fierce snarl and a flash of fangs. The next moment passed in a blur but Stiles was on his back in the dewy grass, his heart beating out of his chest. An arm had flung around, throwing him with all the ease of a rag doll. He stared with wide-eyes now at what he realized was not a man at all, but a werewolf.

Stiles had never seen one before, only heard about them in legends and stories. Always they were cruel and malicious creatures that skulked around bare, mist-laden woods at twilight, lurked about ruined castles or stalked hapless maidens. That in mind, it was a rather odd sight to see one in broad daylight, and in such a dismal state. Along with the other mythical creatures of the world, werewolves were always depicted as symbols of power. Seeing one injured, weak and alone seemed... wrong, somehow. His chest rose and fell painfully slow and staggered. His skin was pale and sallow, his eyes just barely closed. Despite his haggard state, it was impossible to not notice that this man, this creature was uniquely beautiful. His face was angular and handsome, with a light brush of coarse dark stubble which matched his disheveled hair. His body, though ravaged by starvation still showed signs of once being remarkably healthy. He had not gone without so long that Stiles couldn't appreciate a fine musculature, his body perfectly proportioned, tall and tanned to a bronzed dark by the sun.

Stiles had never been one to look at the male gender in terms of aesthetic value, it was a profession so monopolized by the female nobility that he bad simply never thought of it. But with him, it was impossible to ignore, especially when Stiles took in just how he had been injured.  
His body was scuffed and scarred with red lash-marks. A clawed hand grasped at his side, and Stiles gasped at the sight. He held a deep, ugly wound at his side, just above the hip. Stiles could see the broken end of an arrow protruding from the blackened, shredded flesh oozing with pus and the deep red of fresh blood.

For a long while, the two didn't break gaze. Stiles was captivated. Dimly glowing red eyes had him stunned. Now, he was the deer before the arrow. He saw the fangs, the crease of the forehead and nose, the claws and the _power_, and he knew he was in the presence of his natural predator.  
But still, he didn't run. Finally, the werewolf's eyes slid closed, and it slumped over weakly. It was then that Stiles realized just how much that had taken out of this mighty creature in his weakened state.  
He wouldn't last three days.

Stiles sat there for a long while, contemplating the extraordinary occurrence that he had come across. Beacon Hills was, after all a thoroughly ordinary little village on the outskirts of the Kingdom. People grew up and lived and died and would never be remembered or sung about in tales or legends. His perfectly ordinary fate loomed over him now, as he leaned against a boulder and watched a fantastical creature wasting away before him.  
Werewolves were man-eaters. The historical enemy of the ruling family Argent. To shelter one, to help one, to do anything other than report them to a figure of authority within the Kingdom was in its nature treasonous.  
But... Stiles couldn't just let him _die_.

He checked the clearing for anyone watching, thinking quickly. He turned and raced back to he village, going quickly the way that he came.  
Beacon Hills was a small farming town. During high noon of the harvest season, just about all of its inhabitants were out laboring in the field, bringing in the crop. Harvesting, storing, stockpiling for the long winter months. The small town square with the tavern, market, and council square. As the son of the town's Protector and Knight Resident, Stiles' home wasn't too far from the center square. He raced inside, scattering the goats and chickens that picked about the front paddock. Like most in Beacon Hills, his house wasn't terribly large, and it didn't take long at all to find what he needed. Stiles emptied his satchel, filling it instead with flint and steel, kindling, linen bandages, a few utensils and a small cooking pot.

Laden with so many extra goods, his progression back to the woods was considerably slower. For a brief period he was certain that he had lost the way to the glen altogether. It was a rather sheltered place after all, hidden by trees and tree branches that resembled low-lying shrubs in a certain light. When he did discover the place again, he found his werewolf curled up the same way, sheltered in the cave twenty feet from the deer which had not yet begun to attract flies. This was how Stiles found himself dragging the deer carcass across the meadow and into the cave, and set to work skinning, cleaning, and carving the animal with no intention of bringing it back to the village. Though he was sure that the werewolf's injuries needed seeing to, he was clearly weak from hunger. Keeping his distance and making a meal seemed at the moment to be a far safer endeavor than getting up close to examine that arrow.

_Though, trying to treat him once he's regained some strength probably isn't much better_. He realized grimly. If it were a person, perhaps Stiles could rely o a sense of gratitude to make him understand that Stiles was trying to help him, not hurt him. But despite his seemingly human appearance, this werewolf was no better than an injured tiger or bear. It was an animal, bloodthirsty and mindless.

Preparing the deer was slow work, taking up most of the afternoon. He constructed a small fire, adding clean water from the lake outside and simmered the roasted venison to a thick broth. As the smell filled the cave, sometime around sunset, a small growl was heard in the far corner. Stiles froze were he sat, mulling over the stew. By just a few increments, his eyes had opened, a deep crimson red. The werewolf snuffed at him a bit, possibly acknowledging that Stiles was not a threat just yet, and sank back into unconsciousness.

By the time he was finished, Stiles was glad that he had made the decision to turn the venison into a stew rather than try to feed the werewolf whole pieces of meat. For the hours he worked, he had hardly stirred. He simply didn't have the strength. Still, Stiles approached him with utmost care. Sitting cross-legged, Stiles set the pot in between them, letting the scent waft over and rouse the werewolf somewhat. The werewolf looked up at him blearily once again, his mouth hung open. Stiles took the opportunity to hold a spoon to his lips, and to his great surprise and satisfaction he accepted it. To Stiles' great relief, the wolf swallowed whenever the broth was presented to his lips. He didn't open his eyes very much. When he did, it only seemed to be the same gentle rolling back and forth on the brink of consciousness. Just once, he managed to look Stiles in the eye, holding his gaze for an unfathomably long second. Then, he nodded forward again, seemingly dozing off. It was slow going, but in this way, Stiles coaxed two small bowls of broth down him before he would take no more. Full and sleepy, he was curled up on his side. Stiles watched him guiltily, knowing that the best thing to do would be to try and treat his injuries while his guard was down and he was too weak to fight back. Still, it took quite a bit to overcome every natural instinct that he possessed as a human being to approach the animal put on this earth to slaughter his kind. Eventually, Stiles reasoned that he would have to earn its trust first.

All the same, Stiles brewed one last pot of broth, which he left on the warm coals of the fire. The sun had truly begun to set now, and if Stiles didn't leave soon he would be stuck wandering the woods in the dark.  
"Don't die before the morning." Stiles murmured to the werewolf, who seemed to have returned to unconsciousness, and possibly couldn't even understand human speech at all. In a last-ditch effort to stave off the reaper, Stiles shrugged off his coat, draping it over his shoulders. The werewolf growled softly when the unfamiliar weight settled over him, but did not fight it. Perhaps it was the red-orange glow of the evening sun settling over the glen, but Stiles couldn't help but imagine that some of the color had returned to his werewolf's cheeks.  
As he trotted out of the secluded area, Stiles realized that by leaving his jacket and supplies there, he had assured that he would in fact be coming to see the werewolf again the next day. There would be no sudden epiphany of reason to be had during the night. No sudden surge of logical sense where he would realize that what he was doing was most likely a reckless endangerment to the town and to himself. To his father's honor and legacy.

"Nothing, huh?" His father asked grimly. He sat in the corner of the room, casually sharpening his sword. He hadn't needed to use it in years, not since the last war had ended. Stiles liked to think that the fact that it was barely used was a sign that he did an excellent job as keeper of the peace in the little village town of Beacon Hills. Most issues that arose were domestic, and being a well-liked individual, most disputes easily settled by verbal mediation rather than violence. They were small and insignificant enough that any marauders would overlook them in favor of more exciting conquests. The last time Stiles had actually seen him use that sword was when an old mountain lion came down to the nearby woods, making trouble.

"Ah, no. Sorry." Stiles lingered by the door, trying his best to put on a casual nothing-is-wrong sort of face. It must have been satisfactory, since his father returned to tending to his weapon.

"Couldn't say I'm terribly surprised. You always were hopeless with that slingshot." There was a huff of laughter to his voice though, and as Stiles expected it wasn't too big of a deal. They didn't depend on Stiles' hunting to survive after all. Being on the King's salary actually left them quite well off in the town, comparatively. Most citizens of the town were farmers. They worked the king's land, and in return kept a portion of their crops while the rest were sent to the Royal City in taxes. These were the ones who struggled to get by, to have food to eat throughout the winter. Stiles meanwhile always had clothes on his back, food on his plate and the incalculable luxury of leisure time to spend traipsing around in the woods.

Still, it would have been quite the triumphant moment to be able to finally bring home a substantial kill. The best cuts of meat could have been sold to the butcher, as well as the hide to the tanner. The leftover meat could have been dried and smoked to last them throughout the winter, so they wouldn't end up eating potatoes every night like they had last year.

"Any trouble in town today?" Stiles asked, going over to the wash basin to begin preparing dinner.

"Just the usual."

"Old man Smith drunk in town square again?"

"I had another talk with the tavern master not to let him drink himself blind before noon." His father chuckled, placing the sword back on its usual stand over the fire. Stiles smiled to himself, peeling a handful of potatoes for the pot. No news was how he liked his father's news the best. As much as he bemoaned an ordinary villager's life, he also knew in his heart of hearts that any trouble would see his father on the front line of it. Sometimes, life in the kingdom was hard for the bottom rung. The noblemen feasted and sang songs in their glorious, feast-laden halls while the others bent and scraped to survive the year. But at the end of the day... they were safe. It was the King's army that kept the marauder tribes of the Western moors from raiding their towns and setting them ablaze. The power of King Argent was to be feared, and respected by all.

After a few more drinks and a handful of laughter with his father, Stiles retired for the night. There was much to do in the morning after all, and he had never been more thrilled for the sunrise.

Before Stiles could return to the woods the next day, he had a few chores he would have to take care of first. First was a quick trip to the market before all the best produce was taken, then loading up the goat pens with fresh hay. After that, Stiles delivered a few notices as per his father's instruction, and finally a trip to the edge of town to see the healer Deaton.

Deaton came to town only a few months after Stiles' mother passed away. For quite a while, Stiles had irrationally and privately resented him for this. After all, Deaton was very good at what he did. From injuries to colds to seemingly incurable illnesses, anyone who visited him always came off a bit better in the end. Stiles was certain that if he had arrived at Beacon Hills just a few weeks earlier, his mother's life could have been saved. It wasn't until a year ago, when he brought Stiles' father from the tremors that ravaged his body he had managed to forgive him in the private place of his heart.  
Stiles took the dry dirt road that wound out of town, following as it slowly became more grown-over to only the wagon-tracks of Deaton's supply cart. His home was a small, modest cottage made of mortared stones and a thatched roof. He kept to a policy of only charging for his services what the people could afford, which often wasn't much at all. He couldn't really afford a life of such wealth. After all, Deaton's ways were strange. His methods of healing the body involved herbs and powders. He insisted on nourishing the ill instead of utilizing bloodletting to balance the humors. In larger villages and towns, Deaton would most likely hanged for such heretical ideas. Beacon Hills however, was bested in its sense of superstition only by its sense of apathy. Because of this, the healer's existence here was quiet and peaceful as anyone else's.

Stiles knocked, feeling a little skittish. It was hard not to, with the autumn leaves swirling among tall grass. It was quiet out here, and the afternoon sun no longer provided the heavy, comforting heat of summertime. Now, it was cool and the wind carried a very distinct chill. Still, he felt a distinct thrill from arriving for a visit. There was something else he needed from the him today, after all.

"Come in."

The inside of Deaton's hut did little to dissuade Stiles' nerves. It was a dim and dusty place, a small fireplace in the corner providing little warmth. Large tables were cluttered with bits of this and that. Glass tubes, various stones, powders, jars of small pickled animal specimens, skeletons, and a large scaly lizard that Stiles was certain to be another model until it turned to him, blinking its beady eyes rapidly.

"Ah, Stiles. Here for your father's tonic?" Deaton smiled. He was half-hidden in the shadows, standing at a far table where he was measuring out large quantities of black ash on a scale.  
"Um, yes, thank you." Stiles nodded, not taking his eyes off of the massive lizard.

"I was expecting you. Its a good thing our meetings are a regular occurrence." He said, leaning over a pewter cauldron sitting in the fire. "Hamish's cattle blight has been keeping me busy most of the week." He ladled a portion of the draught into a bottle, capping it tight. "The man let his water supply become contaminated. It put the entire herd in danger." He shook his head, sealing the cork of the bottle with sealing wax. The lizard waddled off, and Stiles sat down on a stool, watching the healer work. Along with human troubles, he also often saw to animals. Stiles plucked at his trousers a bit, trying to sound nonchalant. There was another reason besides the tonic that he was eager to visit Deaton today.

"Well, you know on the topic of animal injuries..." Stiles drawled, doing his best to sound terribly casual. "I was wondering if you could help me out with a problem I was thinking of recently."

"Oh?" He placed the bottle in front of Stiles, accepting the few gold coins from him in return. As one of the few families that could afford to pay him in real currency, rather than goods, Deaton had more than enough time to listen.

"Well, I heard a story about this guy. Some hunters once mistook his horse for a deer and tried to shoot it. It... it got really sick and weak after that because they didn't know how to treat him. What ah... what would you have recommended doing?" Stiles was quite proud of himself for the plausibility of his cover story. Normally he was quite a terrible liar. A big help had been the fact that this had in fact happened to someone he once knew.

"I would first have to know where the horse was shot-"

"Oh, like... here." Stiles gestured to his abdomen, just above the hip. The healer scrutinized Stiles closely, perhaps trying to translate that to a horses anatomy. Soon enough though, something seemed to click for him. A strangely knowingly smile curled the corners of his lips.

"First and foremost the arrow must be removed. Horses are strong creatures, but it wont be able to heal until that arrowhead is out of its body." Stiles nodded, listening with rapt attention.

"Now, this would not be an easy thing to do. _Horses_," he strained the word carefully, "are very powerful animals. I don't think I need to tell you that one which is injured and delirious with pain will have difficulty discerning an effort to help it with one to hurt it. Your friend... he would have to make certain this horse trusts him completely." Stiles shifted from foot to foot, a little uncomfortable now.  
"Alright, yeah. Thanks." He pulled away, simply wanting to be far from him at the moment.

"That's not all, Stiles." He said softly.

"Oh?"

"More... experienced hunters, they works with poison s to take down _larger_ prey. For that, a special elixir would be needed to drive the poison from the poor creatures body."  
Now, Stiles' skin was really starting to crawl. There were the rumors, after all. The whispers and murmurs that the healer was a man of the dark arts. Every few years or so some hot headed youth would always speak up, try and bring together a large enough following to storm his house in the night and have him lynched. It was the fact that this town was so terribly apathetic that often saved him in the end. This, and the fact that he had saved the lives of every villager at least once with his tonics and remedies.

"Should such a misfortune befall anything or anyone under your care, I would implore you to seek my help." He said quietly. "Otherwise, I fear their future is a rather grim one indeed." The silence that settled between the two after that was a rather uncomfortable and strange one. Stiles could tell that the healer did not believe all of his story. But what part of it didn't he believe? There was no way he could have known about the werewolf. They were practically unheard of in these parts, the stuff of legend.

No, there was simply no way he could know the truth. Stiles thanked Deaton and awkwardly excused himself.  
On the way back into town however, Stiles was forced to face the very real truth of what he was doing. The ruling family Argent after all were the mortal enemies of the werewolf kind. Though he had never been to the royal city himself, the festival of the King was supposedly an unforgettable event. Aspiring knights all fought and gathered, the victor given the right to fight and slay a werewolf in the Coliseum in front of a crowd of thousands. That being how things were, to harbor or try to protect a werewolf could possibly be seen as an act of treason.

But... what else could he have done? Now that he had already helped Wolf once, he couldn't just abandon him.  
As Stiles trooped across the damp earth back to the glen, he briefly entertained the very real possibility that his werewolf might not have survived the night. It would make perfect sense, after all. He looked like hell when Stiles left him. Though his wound didn't seem too bad, he had clearly undergone some serious mistreatment. And even minor injuries could prove fatal once infected. If Wolf died on his own, Stiles would be off the hook. Still, the thought certainly didn't make him any happier. The more he dwelled on the idea, in fact, the more panicked he became. By the time he reached the slope down to the dell, he was practically in a sprint.

However, when he reached the cave he found that Wolf was still very much alive. The bowl of stew had been licked clean, and the werewolf was curled a bit closer to the embers of last night's fire, the jacket wrapped tight around his otherwise naked torso.

"Hey, you're alright!"

Stiles was greeted by a vicious snarl.

"You sound way better too!" He sat down on the opposite side of the fire, keeping a tight grip on his knife just the same. "I hope you like rabbit. I found these two, they look great!" Though Stiles was obviously panicked about being in his presence, he had always been taught not to let a dangerous animal know that you were afraid. Wolf didn't move, and still seemed to be resting with his back to Stiles. Still, he didn't seem to be strong enough to openly attack him just yet. Stiles took the opportunity to talk aloud a bit as he worked. Though he wracked his brain, the legends of the werewolves, never seemed to touch upon whether or not they were creatures capable of human speech. Not even the very powerful or old ones. All the stories he could remember made them sound like bloodthirsty, simple-minded animals. Wolves that used the guise of the human to terrorize villages and run off with their women. Regardless, Stiles talked aloud as he worked just the same. Even if he was unresponsive, it was nice having someone to talk with other than the goats.

Stiles didn't have many friends in Beacon Hills. Any others his age were all mostly from the families of farmers, now hard at work in the fields. There was a rift, of sorts between the classes; between those who benefited directly from the kings coffers, and those who went hungry during the winter in order to fill them. The young farmers tended to band together. They laughed and drank and shared their private jokes. Anyone of the merchant class who might be more welcoming to Stiles' company just didn't quite fit his age range. The Blacksmith's children were only eight and eleven. The artisans were all much older and making families of their own.

"I suppose it's no wonder I spend so much time in the woods." Stiles noted aloud, stirring the cauldron aimlessly. "Though I'm not sure what good it would do. In a few years I'll be expected to move out and start a family." He laughed dryly at the thought. After all, who was there in Beacon Hills that he could imagine spending the rest of his life with? Especially when his heart had already been given away to unreachable goals. To the vision of a noblewoman he had only seen three times in his life, a glorious angel with strawberry-blonde hair and the perfect smile of an angel.

Stiles shook his head, changing the subject before he could go on to further depress himself pointlessly.

"You know, you ought to let me take a look at that wound." Stiles poked at the cooking rabbit meat. "I mean I know I'm not a surgeon or anything, but at least we could try and get that arrow out. It... well it might get infected, you know." He murmured, glancing up at Wolf. "You would trust me to help, wouldn't you?"

No response.

Stiles sighed quietly, turning the meat over on the coals.  
After a few more fruitless efforts to get Wolf to react to his words, Stiles could only assume that he could not in fact, understand him. Perhaps the legends were right after all. He gave Stiles quite a surprise however, once the meal was ready. With what seemed to be a herculean effort, Wolf pushed himself upright into a sitting position, turning to face Stiles directly now. Figuring that Wolf didn't have long before he dozed off again, Stiles prepared a bowl and set about the task of feeding him once again.

It was a bit easier to get Wolf to eat this time, as he was quite a bit more awake. However, this also made the act of spoon-feeding him a bit more awkward. After all, it wasn't every day one saw blood red eyes. It was perfectly understandable that there was something captivating about them, how he watched Stiles with an indiscernible gaze, puzzling over this human who was nursing him back to health.

"Here. I need my coat back, but you can use this." Stiles held out a stitched wool blanket. "It's the only spare we have though, so you can't shred it or anything." When Wolf didn't make a move to accept it, Stiles leaned forward to drape it around his shoulders.

"I... I should bring you a shirt too, huh?" Stiles said sheepishly. His thumb brushed Wolf's collarbone with the motion. His skin wasn't cold, if anything it was unusually flushed and warm. It was either the start of a fever, or perhaps the natural body heat of his kind. Wolf drew the blanket closer around himself, leaning back against the wall of the cave. His heavy eyes slid shut, looking ready for another deep sleep.  
Stiles fumbled a bit, suddenly aware at the closeness of their proximity. Close enough that his thumb was still resting against the nape of Wolf's throat. Close enough to trust him with his life. And certainly he had been before, but now Wolf had consciously permitted it. Either he was sicker than Stiles realized, or slowly beginning to trust him. Stiles' eyes lowered down to where the wound was hidden behind the blanket.  
Perhaps he could really do it.  
He could make him better.

That was the first night Stiles dream changed.  
Usually, it was some variation of the same tale. Stiles finding himself with a different lot in life, a nobleman riding a white steed in bright armor, set out on some valiant errand. A life of adventure, of freedom. One where the hills in the distance where not stationary bits of ever-constant landscape, but worlds to be traversed and explored. It was a fantasy so common for him that the dream tended to manifest and reoccur once every few weeks or so. Sometimes it was a dragon. Sometimes he was riding a dragon. Tonight, he stormed a tall, ruined castle in the middle of a dark moor. Where a throne room should have been, saw without the slightest bit of surprise, that his enemy was an enormous black wolf. The size of a small house, it took up the entire room. Its fur was a thick, glossy black. It's eyes, a brilliant burning red that left trails in their wake through the dark.  
He readied himself for attack, but instead found himself suddenly quite disarmed. His hands pressed against a very naked, human torso. This part of his dream wasn't too unusual either, but always it was the buxom form of the same beautiful noblewoman, the one with the strawberry-blonde hair. But this body was hard and firm. It was darkened by the sun, rather than soft and pale. His lips touched a strong neck, rough with stubble. Knees slid together, hips aligned and ground into place. At once, a sudden surge of warmth overtook him. He could feel strong arms grasping him, dominating him, _owning_ him. The distant pain of fangs that sank into his skin, and instead of fear what came was a moan of the sheerest _wanting_. The nameless form slid against him, their bodies moving smoothly together, until there was no division of where Stiles ended and his beautiful stranger began.

Stiles woke up flushed and in shock. The morning air was frigid against his flaming hot skin. His body trembled as his hand grasped his chest. His heart was beating frantically.

Stiles didn't think too much about the meaning of dreams. There wasn't much he _could_ do to dwell on it anyway. It was a law of the Kingdom that it was a sin for two men or women of the same gender to be lovers. Though Stiles was never clear as to why this was, it was a law that always had been, and there was nothing he could do to fight it. During his march through the woods, he tucked the dream away into the far, dark corner of his mind.  
The leaves crunched underfoot as he went now. This morning in particular, each fallen leaf and blade of grass was bedecked in a delicate outline of glittering frost. As the sun made its golden ascent it was clear that the frost would not last very long at all, it was simply a sign of the changing season. Stiles briefly wondered what would be done about Wolf once winter set in. Once the snow began to pile up it would be difficult to make the walk to the glen each day. Did werewolves migrate south for the winter, as birds did? Perhaps they hibernated. Stiles checked his snares, which today were bare save for the last, which rewarded him with a very fat pheasant. As he worked, Stiles realized that he might actually become rather lonely not being able to see Wolf until the springtime. He had only been doing this for a few days now, but the change from the ordinary, the brief dip into fantasy, it was intoxicating.

"Hey, Wolf!" Stiles called out happily, rounding the large boulder that stood as the entrance to the cave. "Do you like pheasant? Because..." He trained off when he caught a strange smell coming from the cavern. Usually, it didn't smell like much of anything. A bit of moss and damp air, that was all. Today, the air was thick with a sickening, rusted sort of smell. The floor was dark and slightly sticky with a mysterious black liquid. Upon closer inspection, he realized with a swell of horror that it was dried blood, and a lot of it. Stiles found Wolf huddled in the back of the cave, his body twisted at a sickeningly unnatural way. He was breathing, but just barely. The blanket had been kicked aside, exposing his arrow wound, slashed open wide


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much for everyone who reviewed! I hope you're enjoying the story as much as I have enjoyed writing it so far!

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Stiles looked around wildly, his heart pounding in a panic. His first thought after seeing all of the blood was that a bear or some other greta animal must have come and attacked Wolf during the night. At least, this was what he considered until he saw the same blackened and dried blood caked under his long, clawed fingernails. Like a punch to the gut, Stiles realized that Wolf had done this to himself, trying to remove the arrow. In the thick of the hole that was now Wolf's abdomen, he could see it still wedged there. The ends of cruel-looking barbs embedded into his flesh. Whoever had shot him, they had clearly not intended on it being an implement so easily removed. Stiles could only imagine how long Wolf must have clawed at it before finally succumbing and passing out from the pain. Blue, sickly-looking ribbons of veins bloomed out around the wound. The very look of it, the stench of it wreaked of infection, disease and death.

Wolf was still breathing, but it was very shallow and slight. He was fading, and fast.

Wolf's one arm lay stretched out, and at the tip of his claw was a symbol carved into the soft rock beneath him. Three spirals, joining at the middle. Stiles had one hand on Wolf's cold, seemingly lifeless back as he tried to interpret the image. Wolf was dying. His pain must have been unbearable. But still, he took the time to carve a symbol onto the rock? Stiles clung to the knowledge that this _had_ to be significant. It had to be the key to keeping Wolf alive... somehow.

Still, he had never seen it before. What did it mean? Stiles rubbed his face in his hand. There was only one person in the entire town who could possibly know.

Once more, Stiles found himself sprinting at a breakneck pace through the town. Deaton might not be able to help at all, but he had to trust that hope.  
Stiles raced out of the woods, cutting across a field to the path of the healer's cottage.

If he couldn't... it would be the second grave Stiles had ever had to dig.  
Birds flew up around him as he tore through the grass, shrieking in alarm.  
Another body left cold on the ground.  
All because of him.

As if the birds himself had alerted him, Stiles found Deaton waiting outside when he arrived. Stiles fell forward, his hands clamped over his knees as he drew in deep breaths.  
"You were right... I need, I need... you have to give... to me-" He was aware he sounded like a lunatic, but each breath felt like a knife being wedged snugly into his lungs.  
"Calm down Stiles." Deaton ordered sharply. He grabbed Stiles by the elbow, steering him inside. "What do you need?"  
"I- I need the antidote! It's like you said, exactly like you said he- he's sick and _dying_ and I can't-"  
"Stiles!" He was interrupted sharply. Deaton's eyes were very wide, his mouth set into a tight, thin line. "Now listen to me very closely. You know very well the laws of the kingdom."  
Stiles nodded weakly. Deaton set a mug in front of him of cool, clear tea. Without hesitation, Stiles seized the cup and slugged it down. He almost gagged. It stung like fire going down his throat and caused his sinuses to crackle and burn.  
"Then, I would advise you to _watch what you say_." He said slowly and carefully. "Now. What do you need?" He annunciated each word carefully. Stiles took a piece of charcoal sitting on the table, and drew the rune onto the surface of the table.  
Three spirals, connected at the center.

"I thought so." Deaton said quietly, retreating to the far side of the room. "Finish the tea."  
Stiles grimaced at it, but was in no position to argue. Deaton removed a wooden chest. Even with Stiles' heart pounding against his ribcage, he could notice that it was a finely crafted thing. Solid, thick mahogany with a large iron lock.  
"Now, the wound this tonic treats is a puncture wound. One from a sword, or an arrow." Deaton sifted through a variety of potions, all of them sealed with wax caps in little glass vials. "You will need to pour half onto the wound. Immediately after, remove whatever it is that is lodged in the body which is preventing it from healing naturally." He placed it on the counter. "The rest must be drank." There wasn't much to the potion. Like the others, it was sealed tight. A yellowing label around the middle bore a strange symbol on it.

"Do what you must. And then, I expect you to return here."

* * *

Stiles didn't remember the run back from Deaton's cottage back to the glen. Perhaps it was the dehydration slowly getting to him, or the blinding fear pumping adrenaline hot through his veins. The next thing he could remember was his knees scraping against the stone floor of the cave. Wolf was lying just where he had been left, his body cold and still. Stile broke the wax seal with his teeth, tearing out the cork in the same fast motion. Following Deaton's instruction, Stiles did his best to steady his trembling hand and pour the elixir over the wound. Upon contact with the flesh, the blue tonic sizzled and smoked alarmingly. Stiles was barely aware of tears streaming down his cheeks as he gripped the shaft of the dark red arrow. Though the barbs seemed to have dug deep into his skin, when he pulled it was like removing the arrow from gluey porridge. Stiles doubled over, trying not to be sickened by the action. Wolf was convulsing now. His arm flew out, catching the wall of the cave. Sparks flew as his claws dug down the side, leaving inch-deep rivets in the solid stone.  
Choking back his fear, Stiles gripped Wolf's stubbly chin, trying to pull him steady. If he was going to survive, he would have to drink the rest. Wolf's chin was clenched tight, his body heaving from the pain. In a fit of desperation, Stiles drained the remaining half of the elixir. He grasped Wolf's head, wedging a thumb on either side into the crook of his jaw, forcing his mouth open. Stiles lunged forward, making a perfect seal of their lips and forcing the potion in. If at first Wolf was bad, now he grew far worse. Stiles had to clamp his lips together, forcing his nose shut so he would have no choice but to swallow. Tears stung Stiles' eyes. It would not occur to him until much later that a close slip of his teeth was all it would take to condemn him forever.

After what seemed like an eternity, Wolf quieted down, his thrashing ceased. His pulse steadied, and a deep, easy breathing returned. Stiles doubled over, scrubbing the sweat and tears from his face. His throat was screaming for water, but after Stiles' run he could barely work up the energy to walk forty feet from the cave to the lake. After taking a moment to gather himself, Stiles looked over at Wolf again. The physical toll that his injury and illness was putting his body through had him spent. The ugly, dark wound was now shiny and pink, new skin covering the previously gaping hole. The vile looking arrow tip lay off to the side, coated in blood and viscera. The worst, Stiles dearly hoped, was now over.  
Still, knew he couldn't leave Wolf alone tonight.  
After a short rest to finally catch his breath, Stiles spent the day fretting about the cave, bringing in firewood for the night, and using fur pelts from his previous catches and woven grass to construct a crude pallet for Wolf to lie on. The half moon slowly rose into the sky, and the frost began to settle on the grass and leaves outside. Stiles piled up the fire with dry branches and twigs, breathing hot air onto his hands and knuckles as he did so. Winter was coming. It was going to be here soon.  
"What am I going to do with you then?" Stiles leaned over to check on Wolf, making sure that he was covered with the wool and rabbit pelt blanket. Perhaps it was the warm glow of the fire on his cheeks, but Stiles could have sworn that the color was returning to Wolf's skin. His breathing was deep and steady and even, his expression smooth and untroubled.  
"You're going to be cold if you stay here all winter." Stiles whispered, though really there was no need to. Did werewolves migrate once the snows came? Did they hibernate, like a bear might? It wouldn't be easy to care for a werewolf with the snow piling up.

Perhaps... once he was better, Wolf would simply go back to wherever it was that he came from. Stiles drew his legs up to his chest, trying not to feel too put out at that idea. Really, it made the most sense. What reason would he have to stay here? Stiles huffed a sigh, his breath frosty white in the cold autumn air.

After a moment of consideration, Stiles lifted a corner of the blanket and wriggled his way under. He was freezing, and Wolf felt as if he could do with a little extra warmth tonight. The blanket was not too large, affording little space between them. Stiles felt a little odd about this at first, as though he were invading Wolf's privacy by getting so close. Stiles' forehead rested against his shoulder, his eyes half closed. He could hear his heart now, calm and steady and strong. For the past three days or so, Wolf had quite frankly smelled like death. The odor of rotting, stinking flesh was powerful, but since his wound had closed the stink had ebbed away. Now what remained was a sort of earthly musk. Not unpleasant, really. Stiles felt himself nuzzling a little closer, breathing in deep and trying to get a pinpoint on what exactly the scent was. Something a bit like cedar, and a spice that might have been detected from the kitchen during the years his mother was still alive. It was... soothing. More soothing than lying beside a mysterious killer monster should have been. He really shouldn't have been surprised when Wolf's chest rumbled with a deep, throaty noise. Without opening his eyes, he shifted forward. A powerful, muscled arm wrapped around Stiles and pulled him against his chest. After the moment of panic passed, Stiles wriggled experimentally.  
Nothing.  
He was firmly wedged there, his body flush against the werewolf, whose chin was tucked into the crook of Stiles' neck, his scruff soft on his cheek. Soon, Wolf was going to have a full mountain-man beard on his hands. For some reason, that made Stiles need to stifle a laugh into Wolf's chest.  
Between the two of them and the flickering fire, it didn't take long for the chill to be replaced with a deep, warm coziness. The air outside was simply frigid, the two formed a solid cocoon of heat between them. The night was silent, save for the soft croon of an owl off in the distance. It was too cold for bugs now, and the chorus of crickets and cicadas had long since left with the summer. Though Stiles knew he should have been more wary than he was, he allowed himself to be pulled under into a dark, dreamless sleep.

When Stiles woke up, was alone.

He was still curled up on the makeshift pallet he had constructed the night before. The blanket was wrapped up tight around him in the way it usually got when he rolled around on his bed back home.  
Ugh. Home.  
Stiles sat up stiffly, realizing that his father was probably having a heart attack just about now. He had gone out hunting and didn't come back! With luck, his father was gone on errand last night and hadn't noticed. Stiles blinked about in the weak morning sunlight, stretching his knotted-up limbs as he tried to take stock of the morning.  
The glen looked pretty amazing just after sunrise.  
Everything was glittery and new from the morning dew. Birds were awake and twittering, and the sun was hitting the water at _just_ the right angle. Stiles ran his hand through his hair, now growing rather thick with a few months since his last cut.  
"Wolf?" He called out, pushing himself onto his feet. He peered back into the cave, then took a few steps out into the sunlight, keeping the blanket clamped around his shoulders. It was still warm, and not just from his own body heat, he was determined to believe.  
Was that it then?  
Was Wolf just... gone?  
Did he take off as soon as he was better? Without any sort of thank you or goodbye? Not that Stiles was expecting any sort of drawn-out or heart-felt farewell.  
There wasn't much time for Stiles' imagination to tumble away with him into the realm of the utterly absurd. At that moment the surface of the lake erupted.

Cold, clear water poured off of Wolf's naked body. It rippled over the many facets of his back, now healed and clean of the ugly lash marks that had marred him in the past. His hands ran through his hair, chest heaving as he took a deep breath of the morning air. Wolf knelt down in the water, viciously scrubbing his scalp and shoulders, no doubt trying to rid himself of the accumulated grime which came from lying half-dead in a cave for three days. There was something... different about him too. It was difficult for Stiles to put his finger on it exactly, at least until Wolf turned to face him.

He was human.

The hair on the sides of his face had receded, his brow-line smoothed over. No longer a deep blood red, his eyes were now a very human shade of hazel. For longer than he cared to admit, Stiles stood stunned and stupefied, his mouth agape at the very sight of him. Possibly because the legends never mentioned that werewolves were capable of becoming _human_. They were supposed to be animals, monsters. They weren't supposed to walk and move and act with any semblance of higher intelligence. A race hunted to extinction and slaughtered for sport. They were people, all of them.  
This is what Stiles _should_ have been thinking.  
At the moment though, it was difficult to register or appreciate much else besides the perfectly sculpted body standing before him. It had been hard to full appreciate while he was curled up in the corner of a dark cave, but out here in the sunlight, glistening from the water it was hard to notice much else. The girth of his shoulders and the sharp cut of his abs. The way that his hips cut off at a sharp 'v' to strong, muscled thighs. Wolf stepped out of the lake and onto the pebbly shore, leaving Stiles briefly wondering what the hell happened to his pants.  
Where did he _get_ pants anyway? Did he come from a village?  
Who exactly had been hunting him?  
What was he going to do to Stiles now that he was healed?

These were the questions Stiles _ought_ to have been asking. But it wasn't easy to do when a towering combination of monster and muscle was advancing on him, Wolf's expression inscrutable. His eyebrows were knitted together, his albeit human gaze still quite intimidating the way it was fixed unblinkingly on Stiles.  
He took a step back, feeling his shoulders touch the cool stone of the cliff side.  
Wolf continued his approach.

"Um, hey. So... you're looking, better." Stiles began awkwardly. A rough, calloused hand reached out, cupping Sitles' cheek. Instinctively, he turned away, rather than towards him. His face might have appeared human, but his stance, his walk, the way that he _breathed_ still exuded the undeniable aura of a predator.  
Wolf leaned close, and with an utter disregard for personal space the bridge of his nose brushed against the side of Stiles' neck. He breathed in deep, his hand still holding the nape of Stiles' neck. As strong as he appeared to be, the action was... shockingly gentle.  
"Hey. I'm glad you're alright." Stiles forced a laugh, trying not to give away his nerves. The calloused pads of the werewolf's thumbs circled the soft patch of skin behind Stiles' ears, his forehead brushing against his own.  
"I- I saw the thing you marked on the ground and I- uh," Stiles eyes darted about, trying to find an appropriate place for his eyes to rest. Anywhere but the warm, naked skin of Wolf that was suddenly surrounding him. His solid torso pressed against Stiles' stomach, cornering him between himself and the cliffside. At the contact, Stiles gasped in a manner that soon withered into a strangled moan.  
He felt the tiny nubs of retracted fangs brush against the line of his jaw, and Stiles choked back a plea. But whether it was to spare him or to dig in and never let him go... Stiles honestly couldn't say. Up until this very moment Stiles had no idea that a few simple touches from another person could render him so utterly undone. His heart fluttered against Wolf's naked skin, his blunt fingernails gripped his shoulders. He wanted... what did he want? Just, more. More of this. More of Wolf touching him, caressing him, biting him, _taking_ him.

This was bad.  
To be here with another man. To want nothing more than to wrap his legs around him and press so close there was no space between them. With a _werewolf_. Stiles' acts of high treason were beginning to stack up. At the moment, there was enough on his plate to warrant execution before the very court of the Royal City.  
This was what Stiles _should_ have been considering.  
Really, all that mattered to him was that his father would be the one who would have to bring him in for judgement.  
His father.  
"Dad!" Stiles wriggled away, suddenly breathless. Wolf didn't let him go, but he did withdraw. He looked at Stiles with bewilderment. If he _could_ understand the tongue of man, that clearly was not the explicative he was expecting to hear out of Stiles at the moment.  
"No, I- I mean my father." Stiles tried to wriggle free, but to his alarm Wolf didn't release him. If anything, he moved to pull him closer, resisting the struggle.  
"I left yesterday morning and I- I didn't go back! He must think I got hurt, or that I'm- I just, I have to go home." He wriggled again, looking up at Wolf fretfully.  
"Please." He said quietly. "You have to let me go."  
For a moment, he looked as if he would ignore Stiles' plea. Like he would shove him against the wall and have him then and there, in the wilderness under the open sky for all to see. And Stiles... wasn't certain if he would have resisted. But ever so slightly, his grip loosened.  
"I'll come back." Stiles promised breathlessly. "I- um, noon? Noon, I'll be back here. And we can, um... whatever this is."  
Wolf didn't look particularly reassured, but his hands fell to his sides. Stiles seized the opportunity and scrambled, seized his bag from the cave and made off out of the glen and through the woods back to town. As he rushed past Wolf for the last time, he thought he might have seen him open his mouth, as if to speak. Later, he would resign himself to believing that it was only the product of a fevered imagination.

* * *

Even before Stiles reached the walls of Beacon Hills, he could tell that something was off. He could hear the clamor of horses, the shouts of men despite the fact most were out in the fields by now. He ran inside, skidding to a halt to see the village square nearly trampled flat by troops of magnificent horses. Not the broad-shouldered and weary-eyed stock that pulled plows and powered mills that were usually seen here, but sleek and magnificent beasts that held their heads high. Mounted on them were riders who were unmistakeably of the royal party.  
A man walked by, leading two horses by the reins. He was walking and laughing with another soldier, who had a bow slung over his shoulder with a quiver of red arrows.  
Stiles was about to walk by, when he did a sudden double-take.  
Red arrows.  
Stiles would have bet everything he owned (which admittedly wasn't much) that if he were to examine the tip of those arrows, they would have the same cruel jagged edges as the one which he pulled out of Wolf's side last night.

The Royal guard had attacked Wolf.

Stiles made a beeline towards his house, trying not to attract too much attention as he went. He kept his eyes straight ahead, as if the soldiers would somehow be able to detect the hard-on that he had roughly ten minutes ago had been the very essence of high treason.  
"Dad?" Stiles barged inside, finally making it to his house.

"I was wondering when you were going to show up."  
Stiles stopped suddenly. He had been expecting to see his father white-faced with worry and rage, or organizing a party to comb the very woods looking for him. Instead, he simply had that sort of what-will-I-do-with-you half smile that he put on whenever Stiles was caught doing something troublesome.  
"I, um... yeah, I just-"  
"It's alright. Calm down. Deaton explained to me what you were doing." He raised a hand to stop Stiles, causing him to shift mid-excuse.  
"Next time, I'd appreciate a heads-up yourself next time you stay the night helping him in his shop. I know it's a long way but-"  
"No problem. You got it, dad." Stiles assured him, nodding vigorously.  
"Good. Listen, Stiles. I want you to stay in tonight." Rather than putting his sword back on the mantle, his father sheathed it at his side. Stiles felt a lurch of dread at the action.  
"This is about the hunting party, isn't it?" He paled, chewing on his tongue to try and bite back his guilt.  
"It is. The royal family came into town today." He explained calmly. Stiles reeled in disbelief. He grasped his head, his eyes blown wide and mouth agape.  
"What?"  
"Yes, they were-"  
Stiles chair fell away beneath him. He moved to slam his hands on the table, but his left hand missed the edge by an inch or two, causing him to nearly nail his chin on it instead. He recovered quickly.  
"Do you mean that the Lady Lydia was riding through this very town while I was out mucking in the woods?" He grabbed his father's tunic, only to be pushed off again.  
"She was there accompanying the princess, yes." His father explained evenly. After a moment of consideration, his eyebrow piqued. "_Mucking?_" He was clearly taking no joy in watching his son lose his wits.  
He had been almost eight years old when he saw her for the first time. The party was coming through to view the kingdom, making a stop in every village along the way. Even now, Stiles could remember everything about her, from the way that the light caught the perfect ringlets of her strawberry-blonde hair to the make of her dress and the kind of bit and bridle on her lovely white pony. Since then, he had only managed to glimpse her from time to time.  
"But they went to Westshire for the evening."  
"What?" Stiles' face fell instantly.  
"Hardly anyone's fault. Our inn was too small to accommodate them comfortably." He explained simply, pulling on a thick coat. "But don't go running off, I'm serious. The entire town is going to be on curfew tonight."  
"What? Curfew?" Stiles sank back into his chair, deeply troubled. The last time that his father had to enforce curfew on the town Stiles had been nine. A trader moving between towns had been attacked and killed by a bandit party. They had turned out to be nothing like the marauding wild men of the moors, just a few drunk thugs looking for fast gold. Still, the entire town was brought inside the gates of Beacon Hills, which were closed tight and sealed until sunrise.  
"Wait, during the harvest? You can't do that to the town! They need every day they can get to bring in their crops-"  
"I know that." To his credit, his father didn't sound happy about the turn of events at all. "The order isn't from me, it's from the King himself. What can I do?"

Stiles held his tongue, crossing his arms tightly. The King wouldn't understand. He didn't se the people in the village forced to toe the line of starvation every winter. They grew more than enough crops to feed a town three times the size of Beacon Hills, almost all of it sent away in taxes to the royal family.

"It's not for nothing, Stiles. The hunting party is tracking an injured werewolf."  
Stiles' eyes widened, his stomach clenching with the sensation of an ice cube sliding down his throat and into his gut.  
"He was shot about four days ago, and they've been following him west in this direction since." He explained quickly, with that sort of tone which clearly implied that this was _not_ information that the rest of the town was meant to be privy to. "So at this point, they're just looking for a body." He pursed his lips, heading towards the door. When he reached the mantle, he stopped and looked back to Stiles.  
"Really, I suppose its lucky you weren't out last night. These monsters are always at their worst before the end."

Stiles nodded thickly, his heart hammering against his ribcage.

As soon as his father left, Stiles leaned forward with his elbows on the table, groaning into his hands.  
The royal hunting party.  
That was one of the mysteries of Wolf's past solved. After all, who _else_ could have survived inflicting that sort of injury on a werewolf? Who else would have access to that sort of poison? Stiles' thought strayed to the lashmarks that had cut deep into Wolf's back, the worst sinking inches deep into the muscle. The more he thought about it, the more his stomach twisted. He had to close his eyes tight, controlling his breathing to keep the panic from taking over.  
They had tortured him. For what? What had he done? Either Stiles had knowingly assisted a fugitive of the Kingdom,  
Or he lived in a land where the authority tortured the innocent.  
Stiles pulled himself to his feet, heading for the door. He couldn't think about this right now.

Not when the same people who had done that to Wolf in the first place were out there right now, searching for him.

Without much in the way of a plan in mind, Stiles snuck out of the house and ducked back towards the woods. He'd get to the glen and... what? Convince Wolf to run? Begin his life as an outlaw? For a while, Stiles even wildly considered the idea of going with Wolf wherever it was that werewolves went to be safe from the Argents. Of course, this was one of many horrible ideas that never really had any merit to begin with.  
Stiles paused by the entrance to the glen, stopping just behind the trunk of an oak tree. Down in the meadow at the foot of the hill, five imperial horses were stomping and grazing about.  
He could hear the sound of raised voices talking there.  
He could feel the cold tip of an arrow resting against the nape of his neck.

"There's a curfew on the town." A cold, female voice said quietly. Stiles' hands shot up into the air.  
"Turn around." She ordered.  
Slowly, Stiles pivoted on the spot, finding himself face-to-face with Princess Allison Argent.

She was nothing like Stiles had imagined her to be. Granted, the last time he had seen her they were both much younger. She had been a pretty porcelain doll dressed up in expensive lace and petticoats, riding her quaint little pony alongside Lydia. Now, the only thing that set her apart as royalty was a circlet of silver, woven and braided into a light but ornate crown. That, and the way she held herself as if she was one with the world at her feet. Really, what had Stiles aghast was the fact that she wore _trousers_, well-fitting and dark like the rest of her outfit. The arrow held to Stiles' neck was resting snugly in crossbow, which she weidled effortlessly.

"... You're the Knight's son." Allison lowered her crossbow after a quick once-over. Her eyes narrowed, though she seemed less suspicious and more curious now. "What are you doing out here?"  
"I, uh..." Stiles' mouth opened and closed a few times, gaping like a fish as he searched for a half-convincing answer. "I heard about the werewolf and I..."  
"Wanted to be a hero?" She said shrewdly, placing a hand on her hip. "This is no task for a commoner, farm boy."  
_I don't work on a farm_. Stiles thought pointedly, but knew better than to start mouthing off. Not just to a princess, but to any ticked-off amazon warrior wielding a deadly weapon.  
"Allison!" A gruff voice called out from the meadow. "What did you find up there?"  
"Nobody." She called back, not taking her eyes off of Stiles. "Look, just go home, okay?" She whispered harshly to him. "You realize how bad it's going to look coming out here right now? We just found-"  
"Bring him down!" Another voice called out to her. "I'd like to have a word with him."

Allison sighed, closing her eyes tightly.  
"This is going to look really bad." She grasped his forearm, pulling him along. "Come on. Just keep your mouth shut if you can, alright? And whatever you do, _don't lie to him_.  
Before Stiles could ask who exactly _he_ was, Stiles found himself face to face with the king.  
Gerard Argent.

Unlike Allison, who had changed so radically since he last saw the royal party, Gerard had not changed in the slightest. He had the same grizzled expression, one that stood on the edge between warm and welcoming and downright frightening, depending on how he felt that day. His hair was a whispy white, surrounded by a thick gold crown set with precious blood-red stones.  
Just behind him was his son, the General Argent and Allison's father.

"Ah... the young Stilinski." The King greeted Stiles with a smile that was meant to be warm, but somehow had him chilled to the bone. "You're just in time. Our quarry has since eluded us, but we have just found something... most interesting." Two hunters were currently combing through the cave, picking over everything and anything from small stones to bits of animal hair. Stiles knew that there had to be one or two things there which could easily condemn him. The blood, the triple-spiral carved into he cave floor, the arrow that had come straight from Wolf's side...

"By the looks of things, it's just a vagrant's hole." The King explained, as if it were no surprise at all that Stiles should show up at the time that he did. "Not a permanent dwelling of course, but certainly a saving grace for a wounded animal to stumble upon."  
"Nothing here, sir." The man stood up, kicking over Stiles' cooking pot.  
"Maybe we made a mistake." Allison reasoned. "There was that fork in the woods back there-"  
Stiles couldn't believe his luck. Was he actually going to get away with this? He looked around, his heart pounding. Where was Wolf? Did he hear the hunters coming and flee?  
Would he have stopped and taken the precious time needed to clear the cave of any evidence that might have condemned Stiles? It all seemed like too much of a wild stretch to him.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything that might help us here, would you boy?" Gerard spoke slowly and softly. But when he did, the entire glen fell silent. Stiles could have sworn that even the birds went quiet for him.  
He felt the attention of everyone present shift to him. Allison's words rang in his ears. _Don't lie_.  
Was he really going to arrive at three counts of treason before the end of the week?

"Your highness, with all due respect-" The General spoke up now, with a distinct note of pity in his voice. "There's certainly nothing that a kid like this could possibly do to help a werewolf in that state. He would have been near dying, if not already dead."  
"I'm not suggesting that he helped the creature, of course." Gerard smiled warmly, walking over to Stiles. He clapped a claw-like hand on Stiles' shoulder. For someone so old, the grip felt impossibly strong.  
"No, the son of a Knight would know better than to do something so foolhardy. However, it is a lovely coincidence that we should run into one another at this very spot. What with the Stilinski's son being a hunter of these woods, one would naturally want to see if he's noticed any unusual sights." He said with a papery smile. His hand shifted to Stile's neck, two fingers sliding into place at a notch just below Stiles' ear.  
"Now, boy. Why don't you tell us if you've seen anything _interesting_ these last few days." The King rumbled contently. "Think carefully, and speak truthfully."

Stiles fumbled for the right words, but before he could reason up some pitiful, poorly-planned explanation, they were interrupted by a newcomer in the woods.

"Ah, there you are Stiles."  
The party turned to see Deaton emerging from the underbrush. He brushed the briars and leaves from his clothes, smiling as if disrupting the royal hunting party during interrogation was an everyday occurrence for him.  
"Well, if it isn't Deaton himself." Gerard's twisted smile was hardly comforting. "So this is the town that you've buried yourself in for the last six years."  
"My work requires me to be close to nature, as you know, your majesty." Deaton said with a nod. As if addressing the king was simply old hat for him, he turned his attention instead to Stiles.

"I thought I might find you out here. I see you were just explaining our work to his majesty. How exciting." He spoke softly, with a certain twinkle in his eye. Deaton strode across the clearing to Stiles.  
"Good, good. You managed to retrieve everything before my campsite was torn apart." He laughed good pleasantly, and pulled a leather sleeve out from the crook of Stiles' jacket. In a blink-and-you'd-miss-it moment, Deaton shot a dark warning look to Stiles to close his currently unhinged jaw, then turned back to the crowd.

"As you can see, your majesty, Stiles has been assisting me in cataloging these flowers for my archives. He's been bringing me supplies these past few days to save me those troublesome walks to my cottage."  
He opened the sleeve, pulling out several sheets of dry parchment paper, depicting the very flowers that the horses and the hunting party had just recently trampled to the ground.  
"Is that so?"  
"It's true." The General said, retrieving one of the paintings to examine it. "When I met with Stilinksi in the village he told me that Stiles was spending the night assisting Deaton."  
"He's been quite useful to me." Deaton agreed.

"These are pretty good." Allison remarked, looking over her father's shoulder. "I always hated being tutored in the arts. I could have used some natural talent like this." She scrunched her nose in a way that might have been cute, if not for the lethal weapon she currently had cocked over her shoulder. At the moment, Stiles was only thinking that he too had zero proficiency for painting or drawing. If these people knew Stiles at all, they would have been able to see through the lie in an instant.

"Deaton, if you don't mind." Gerard motioned to the man, who continued to smile plainly.  
"Not at all, your highness." He walked forward, kneeling in the grass before the king. He stepped forward, placing two fingers halfway down Deaton's neck.  
"Now..." He said in his usual, gravely tone. "I'd like you to tell me just what has been going on out here."  
"I have been observing the blooming patterns of these flowers, and cataloging their medical properties."  
"Did you see any sign of the creature?"  
"I have not heard, or seen anything of the sort." Deaton replied steadily.  
After what felt like the longest moment in Stiles' young life, the King nodded.  
"Very well. Is this true, boy?" He turned to Stiles, who nodded at once.

"Well then... it seems we've hit something of a dead end here." The king drew himself up to full height.  
"We can double back to where the trail forked." Allison swung back up onto her horse with the kind of grace that came from a warrior, not a lady. With her command, the rest of the troupe stood and assembled.  
And just like that, the hunting troupe was gone.  
Soon, Stiles and Deaton were alone in the clearing.  
Stiles opened his mouth to speak, but Deacon held up a hand, silencing him. He seemed to be watching, and listening. Though what for, Stiles couldn't tell.  
Finally, he spoke.  
"You did well, Stiles."  
"With all due respect... what the hell was all that?" Stiles' voice cracked with weariness. With his adrenaline no longer pumping hot, he could feel all of the tension and stress from the moment wash over him. Deaton only smiled.  
"In my line of work, it has paid to perfect the art of telling a convincing lie. It also helped that they did not wish to see the truth. Though I haven't seen the king in many years, it would be... inconvenient for him to have lost my loyalty."  
"That's not what I meant." Stiles said weakly. Deaton knew it too.  
"I'm afraid that from the moment you stepped into this glen, you've been hopelessly over your head, Stiles." Deaton chuckled, sticking his hands in his pockets. The grass crunched underfoot as he walked. "You're going to have to get used to more questions than answers."  
"What?" Stiles said weakly. "But- that's not-"  
"Fair?" Deaton's laugh was mirthless. "Stiles, go home. Find a good woman and settle down. Your lot in life might not be the most thrilling, but the life you can live here will be safe. In this world, the more answers you seek will take you further away from that peace."  
"... No offense. But, that doesn't sound like the sort of advice I ever expected to hear from a guy like you."  
For a moment, Stiles could have sworn that Deaton looked just a little bit impressed.  
"Winter is coming, Stiles. I suggest you stay inside."

Stiles turned, about to hotly protest that it wouldn't kill Deaton to step away from the cryptic words of wisdom for a moment, when a cold blast of air interrupted him. Riding on its back was a ballista of white flakes, now littering the sky and floating down from up above. Stiles stood there among the dying, freezing flowers, watching the snow fall.  
Deaton was right. Winter _was_ here.

Another flurry of wind ripped through Stiles, chilling him to the core. As it rattled through the trees and over the hills, Stiles could have sworn that along with it he heard the howling of a lone wolf.


End file.
